


The One Where John is Naked

by sheafrotherdon, Siria



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-04
Updated: 2007-12-04
Packaged: 2017-10-03 20:15:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheafrotherdon/pseuds/sheafrotherdon, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siria/pseuds/Siria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The title says it all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The One Where John is Naked

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Aesc.

Rodney's up at 3.30am, seized by inspiration, gleeful that he's worked out how to fix the imperfect calibration of the 'jumpers' inertial dampening system _in his sleep_. It takes him a little over two hours to make the adjustments, him and a screwdriver, a couple of Ancient crystal repair modules and a few lines of code—and by 6am he's bounding into Sheppard's quarters, heedless of the hour, brimming with vigor and brand new narratives about his genius. He's more than ready to launch into episode 476 of 'Why Everyone Should Love Me' when things get derailed—derailed by nakedness; _John's_ nakedness; John Sheppard, who's standing at the foot of his bed with a pair of boxer shorts in his hand, looking generally sleepy and a little bemused.

"Did you want something?" John asks, and Rodney did, yes, but can't exactly remember what. He takes an abortive half-step forward because for a moment all he can think is _you— you—_.

John does that eyebrow thing. And simply waits.

Rodney's hands work together for a moment or two before he reaches out, almost gingerly, and puts a hand on the smooth, warm skin of John's shoulder, rests it there. He's not exactly sure what he's doing – there's a good chance he's dying somewhere, head cracked open by a fast-moving Ancient door, and that this is just an out-of-body experience and it's not John's body beneath his hand. But John – John's just watching him and things feel real, even if his brain is offline, and John's smirk is moving from amused to speculative. "Hey, McKay," he whispers.

Rodney falters. "I, I think I... " and then his chin comes up and he's not really looking at John, but he sounds a little more certain when he says "I think... " This is all news to him. Wow. Tuesdays pack a punch. "I think I wanted—" and then John leans down and kisses him before he can finish.

Rodney's brain stutters, surges, stutters again and flatlines efficiently, because thinking's not really worth the energy when he could be kissing John's (hot, wet) mouth instead. His fingers press firmly into the warm skin of John's back even while his mouth opens up; he lets them scratch over the freckles he knows are there, scattered haphazardly over the wings of John's shoulderblades – he's been watching this whole time, he realizes, even if he hadn't _seen_.

It's John who pulls back first; his expression warm. "You coulda said," he murmurs.

"I didn't know," Rodney says, gaze still fixed on John's mouth, the kiss-swollen curve of it, "I didn't—I knew but I didn't know. You." One of his hands moves of its own accord, thumb coming up to stroke over the stubble of John's jaw.

John leans in and ghosts a kiss, and then another, high over Rodney's cheekbone. Rodney shivers. "You're not making a lot of sense," John says, and he sounds amused but also kind, and Rodney's mind whirls at everything he's trying to take in.

"Well, you're naked," Rodney whispers as if he's confiding a secret, voice made hoarse by want and something that maybe goes even deeper than that. "I wasn't expecting..."

"We could get you naked too," John suggests, fingers hovering at Rodney's belt buckle.

"I, we could, yes," Rodney says; his mouth's gone dry, his palms are sweaty, but then he looks up at John and sees such fondness there, such well-worn affection, that he almost laughs; he doesn't know why he's feeling so nervous—this is Sheppard, this is _John_, this is new but it'll be _theirs_—and he unbuckles and unzips and kicks off his boots, fingers made inefficient by haste.

He's not paying attention to John at this point, too focused on stripping off his clothes and wondering idly if his belly is so soft that John will laugh at him, so it comes as a surprise to turn around, naked, and find John already sprawled on his back on the bed, one arm behind his head as he watches Rodney, the other idly stroking his cock.

"Oh, you... you want?" Rodney says, swallowing, making an aimless gesture with one hand that could mean any one of half a dozen (obscene, filthy, dirty, wanted) things.

"Yeah," John says, licking his lips, eyes dark. "C'mon."

"Only it's been a while," Rodney says. "With anyone. Not just with—" he gestures toward John's erection "—you know, in general, and I'm not sure if..."

"_I'm_ sure," John says, stretching out his free hand, palm upturned like he's reaching for Rodney, pulling him closer, like he wants Rodney to reach for him, too. "I don't care, I just want to touch."

Rodney swallows hard and crosses the space left between them, fumbles his hand into John's (truly fumbles, almost misses and has to readjust) and sinks down onto the mattress. He straddles John's thighs, feeling the scratch of leg hair against the inside of his own. He's blushing, he can feel it—hot pink staining his cheeks and his neck. John takes a hand from his cock, reaches up to trace the line of heat that's flaring in Rodney's body—cheek to throat to chest to belly, a meandering path that sparks want everywhere it goes. "Yeah," John says, mouth curving up in one of those rare, blinding smiles, pulling Rodney's free hand down to curve around his cock, and Rodney shivers at that, grip tightening involuntarily—he's touching, he's—

"I'm touching your cock!" he manages in a fervent whisper, then frowns, horrified.

But John just lets out a rusty little chuckle, not that far away from a full-blown belly laugh. Rodney tenses, because he didn't mean, he's not good at this; but John doesn't let him move, just coaxes his hand downward and rasps "And now you're touching my balls." He raises one eyebrow at Rodney, that expression Rodney associates almost instinctively now with challenge and adrenaline and _fun_. "I like you touching me."

And he does, Rodney realizes, blinking and looking at the flush of color on John's face, the way his breath isn't entirely steady, the way he's ... well, okay, John's rock hard and warm in Rodney's hand and that's pretty encouraging. Rodney takes his hand away for just a second—long enough to lick his palm—and John whines at the pause, arching his hips as if his cock can follow to Rodney's mouth, just like Rodney's hand.

Rodney says, "No, it's okay, let me just—" shifting so that he's settled better on John's legs, so that he can look down and watch as he closes his hand around John's cock once again, slow and steady and tight; watching fascinated as John starts to fuck up into his fist. It's lewd and filthy, the way the head of John's cock slides between his fingers, slicker and slicker by the second; the way John gasps and groans when Rodney tightens his grip, twists his fist; the way John's hands lift and drop, his fingers gripping the sheets, relaxing, lifting again, as if he doesn't know what to do with himself, as if he doesn't quite know how to give himself up to this. Rodney stills his hand, all except for the pad of his thumb, stroking slow and steady over the head of John's cock. "Can you come from this?" he says, "From me touching you?"

"Jesus, yeah, are you kidding?" John pants, canting upward with his hips.

"Just this alone?" Rodney says, feeling how his own breath is starting to come shallow and quick, starting to work John's cock again, slow and deliberate, "Just my hand on you? No tongue, no mouth, no teeth, no fingers inside you?"

John groans, head tipping back. Apparently dirty talk's a trigger. Rodney tilts his head. Interesting.

"Maybe next time," Rodney says, with a sudden swift twist of his wrist.

John shouts hoarsely as he comes, a short, involuntary sound that fades into the silence of desperate, heaving breaths as he twists and shudders beneath Rodney, eyes closed, teeth fastened on his bottom lip. Rodney stares—knows that he's staring; sits there, still, and watches while John shakes his way through it; wondering at how young John looks, how oddly beautiful, with all the lines on his face smoothed out from sheer pleasure. "God," John manages eventually, one hand gesturing feebly then smacking back against the mattress. He shivers. "God."

"Yeah," Rodney says; he takes himself in hand almost unconsciously, moving with the loose, swift strokes he likes best. "John... "

John blinks and blinks again, says, "No, no, me," and bats Rodney's hand away, replaces it with his own.

"Oh, god," Rodney groans, hips arching forward into John's touch and eyes fluttering closed, "that's, yes, more..."

John tightens his grip, presses hard with his thumb just beneath the head of Rodney's cock with every pass of his hand. "C'mon," he whispers.

"Please," Rodney mumbles, leaning forward and bracing himself on both arms, close enough to John that he can feel the heat coming off John's body in waves; close enough that he can smell John's sweat and John's come, hear the rasp of his breathing. John leans up and kisses him, bites at his bottom lip, hand whipping up and down Rodney's cock, and Rodney has to break away—has to, because he's coming, great shudders wracking his body, striping John's belly, leaving him helpless and panting. "Oh god," he moans, "John. John," his arms giving way so that Rodney collapses half on top of him, sticky mess on both their stomachs and his face buried in John's neck; John's hand is still working him slowly, wringing every last ounce of pleasure he can from Rodney's body. John lets him go at last, turns his head and... Rodney blinks, dazed—he's kissing him. Kissing his head. Kissing him fondly, wetly, with tongue and... Rodney looks up. "Hmmm?"

"Hey," John says, pausing to lick at his stubble in a way that should be disgusting but is actually kind of hot. "So I was on my way to take a shower when you walked in."

"Hen..." Rodney clears his throat, still dazed. "Hence th' naked."

"That'd be it," John says, voice warm.

"Okay," Rodney says, badly wanting to just set his head down on John's shoulder for a spell, but thinking that's probably against the rules. Of whatever it is they're doing.

"But it's a big shower stall," John says, stroking one big hand down Rodney's side, along his thigh, "you could come with me." He leans in, whispers in Rodney's ear. "I could suck you off this time, see how fast I can get you to come again."

Rodney's a little disturbed by the way his body's cleaving to John's, how the stroking's making him want to purr. "I'm almost forty," he says apologetically.

"I can hold my breath for two minutes," John says, and Rodney doesn't have to look at him to know just how wicked his grin is.

Rodney feels a smile making his own mouth curve upward. "So—so was this just... " He realizes that, oh god, he's asking the question _he's_ only ever been asked by girls. "Shower, yes," he says, and unwinds himself from John.

They stumble into the shower together, heated spray surrounding them with a flicker of thought from John; a flicker of thought from Rodney ('yes' and 'more' and 'him' and 'please') pressing him up against John, wet, slick bodies and wet, intimate mouths. There's no way Rodney's getting hard again right away, but god, this feels good, shockingly good.

"I know I'm not supposed to—I mean I stopped myself asking," Rodney whispers in a rush, into John's ear, "before, just now, but I—is this... I don't think I could stand it if this was only once." He swallows hard, hearing his own honesty.

"No," John says, hands sliding lower down Rodney's back, "I asked you before what you wanted. What do you want?" His hands on Rodney's lower back press them closer together.

"This," Rodney says, voice taut with anxiety. "A lot. Often. Much."

John shrugs one-shouldered and smiles. "Okay, sure."

"Okay, sure?" Rodney asks, voice going up another pitch. "I—are you humoring me? Don't humor me, I mean, if you don't want—it's okay if you... "

John pulls back just enough so that Rodney can see his face; he's smiling, sure, and one eyebrow is cocked in the way that Rodney always associates with faint irony. But there's no irony there now, no distance, just John; and when John says "Rodney, I'm sure. I want this; want you," Rodney thinks he can believe him.

"It's just that no one really has. Ever. Before. That I knew of," Rodney blurts, and god, god, there has to be a cure for verbal diarrhea by now, right? Pills or surgery or something, because this is ridiculous, he can't stop himself, he can't, "so it's hard to conceptualize that—I mean, I know I'm a catch. I know my brain's very attractive in an evolutionary sense, but you're a guy, so you're not thinking with your chromosomes in quite the same way that—I just... sorry."

"Rodney," John says, and there's an edge of exasperation to his voice now which makes Rodney think he has to be telling the truth; John always sounds like that when Rodney's edged him over the line into frustrated honesty. "I'm not lying here. I do in fact want you, and I'm kind of glad no one has really wanted you this much before me, because that'd stop me from doing all sorts of things I really want to do. Like, I don't know, sucking you off."

Rodney frowns, perplexed. "You wouldn't suck me off if someone else had wanted me?"

John casts his eyes up to the ceiling, as if he's appealing to whichever deity is responsible for him having to say this out loud. "No, I'm saying that if someone wanted you as much as I want you? Not so likely to let you go."

Rodney blinks, face softening. "Oh." He blushes and looks down at the place where their bellies are almost touching. "Oh."

"Idiot," John says, fond, and takes advantage of Rodney's distraction to upend half a bottle of shampoo over his head.

Rodney squawks, and thus begins an epic battle of suds and fingers, water spray and eager hands that leaves both of them clean, if a little turned on, and the inside of the shower stall smeared with every product they have at hand.

"Huh," Rodney says when they slump to sit on the floor, water slowly turning to lukewarm around them. "That was kind of, uh, different."

"Yeah," John says, reaching out to tease the sudsy hair on Rodney's head into a kind of mohawk, "yeah, it kind of is."

Rodney smiles crookedly. "We're supposed to be at senior staff in like . . . ten minutes."

"S'okay," John says, "we've got time enough."

"You want to... have lunch? Today?" Rodney asks.

"You mean like have lunch or... have lunch?" John says with a significant waggle of his eyebrows.

Rodney blinks. "We could... have lunch? So soon?" he asks.

"Eh, I could eat," John drawls.

"I don't know what we're talking about anymore," Rodney says, confused.

"Sex," John says slowly, like he does when he's explaining something after Rodney's had yet another head wound. "We're talking about all the slow, sticky sex we're gonna have after the meetings this morning. And about how I'm going to suck you off tomorrow, and maybe fuck you in your office the day after that. Clearer?"

"Huh," Rodney manages, his voice a little higher than usual.

"Great," John says, and grins

"So..." Rodney struggles to his feet. "We should—senior staff."

"Sure," John says and unfolds himself from the floor; he follows Rodney from the bathroom, tosses him a towel to dry off with, and smiles.

Rodney watches him, then starts when his stomach rumbles—he hasn't eaten in hours. He hurries to dress again. "I need pancakes," he says.

"Is that a euphemism?" John asks, pulling on a shirt.

"No, no, that's—" Rodney looks over at him, fastens his pants. "If we're doing lunch, I'm gonna need carbs ahead of time."

John laughs. "Tuesday packs a whole new punch, huh?'

And Rodney can only grin.


End file.
